


Under Threat of Death

by SelSpeaks



Category: Lupin III
Genre: Angst, Forbidden Love, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Love Confessions, Love/Hate, M/M, POV First Person, Romance, i think its angst im really bad at tagging, idk if this counts as romance but they do love each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:54:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29786058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SelSpeaks/pseuds/SelSpeaks
Summary: "I, Arsene Lupin, the third of the name, am absolutely in love with you, Koichi Zenigata, and have been for years, and will continue to be until I die."(first person POV). Lupin is once again in prison, and this time Zenigata is giving up on any chance of redemption. He gives Lupin a final chance.Happy LuZeni Day!
Relationships: Arsène Lupin III/Zenigata Kouichi
Comments: 3
Kudos: 26





	Under Threat of Death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pinapin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinapin/gifts).



> Not beta'd/edited because I have to go to class and I'm impatient. Happy LuZeni Day! Lupin is a real shit dude in this one. Gifted to Hazza because she said she wanted angst. Love u.

Prison cells, I’ve decided, are shit. They are cold and dark, and the dampness hanging in the air from any source of water sticks to you like dog fur. Sunlight is a rare luxury, and  _ everything _ is grey. The worst part of prison cells, though, is how absolutely, painfully  _ boring _ it is to exist within one. 

I am not one to enjoy quiet solitude, sitting near motionless for hours in deep thought and introspection. Nor am I one to relax on a couch or bed for the majority of a day, basking in the simple pleasure of a comfortable surface. No, those things have never suited me. I am, and I do say this with kindness towards myself, a child in that I thrive off of bright colors, loud sounds, action- constant stimulation keeps me sane. That, and coffee. And I will admit, occasionally cocaine. On the rare occurrence of my imprisonment I have none of these things, confined to a small, dull area that is silent and dim. Prison sentences are punishments for crimes but, in my opinion, this punishment should be filed under ‘cruel and unusual.’

It is here in prison, though, that my greatest ideas come to me, the only problem being the ability to remember them. When I’m sent to the nicer facilities they tend to give me paper and (approved) writing utensils, and I am sincerely thankful for that. This is not a nicer facility. This is an in-between stop along a long series of confinements, moving ever closer to my home country and inevitable execution. I do not plan to attend.

I’m only ever in prison when I want to be. If I don’t want to be there then I leave, sometimes with the help of a couple loyal friends. Honestly, none of us are good men and society isn’t wrong to say I belong in captivity. The three of us combined have stolen more valuable items than most people can list off the top of their head. We’ve killed more people than any one person has likely met. We’ve taken lives, fortunes, and hope from just about anyone we’ve wanted to. We are the monsters in the dark that women hide their children from, and the world would be a better place without us in it. Hence the prison cells and aforementioned death sentence which, I say again, I will not be present for. 

There is one man on this Earth that knows me as well as I know myself. In dangerous situations I feel the heat of my heart rushing and smile. The thrill of our escapades are just as good as the drugs I’ve used. Nothing quite matches it. Danger is something to smile at, and death is something to dance with. Fear generally is not in my vocabulary. So when that man rushes after me with rage in his eyes and an army of law enforcement behind him, I laugh and run and escape. I’ve taunted him and hurt him for decades. It’s his fault, really, for persisting this long. It’s an uncomfortable feeling when another person has devoted their entire life to you. It’s a scary feeling. And remember, fear is not something I’ve experienced often. I’ve only seen this man happy when I’m trapped in cages such as the one I’m in now. He does visit often, which is a nice break from the nothingness, and we make jabs at each other for a while before he inevitably assures my eternal sentence and I point and laugh. We’ve played this game a long, long time. I think I’m winning so far. 

Today was a bit different though. He’d come by three times and just stared at me, ignoring my teasing and jokes. His departure from our game filled my body with a heavy dread and I had nothing in this horrid place to distract myself from it. I was almost happy when he came by again after I finished what the guards referred to as ‘dinner.’ His solemn expression and dropped shoulders paused my emotions and flipped something within me sideways. All I wanted was for him to play our game again and stop with the depressive nonsense he’d been doing all day. My wishes were, of course, ignored. I’m still not convinced it wasn’t a deliberate act of defiance against me when he grabbed a bar to my cell and sighed in such a way that stabbed my chest. 

I suppose the guards could have poisoned my dinner, and that was why my body was feeling cold and heavy, but the likelihood of that was near zero. I didn’t like seeing this man who’d been around me for all these years just...standing there. Dispirited. It was pathetic! ...No, it was heartbreaking. And so I walked to him, or as close as I could with thick metal bars between us, and grabbed the pole nearest to his still-grasping hand. When he leaned his head against the metal I nearly stepped away.

“Why are you like this?”

I’ve been asked that question a lot. I’m loud, energetic, and sometimes a bit illogical. We all have our faults. I’m also a thief, a murderer, and not exactly polite to the women I fancy. I’ve answered that question a hundred ways and more, ranging from (in my opinion) hilarious jokes to late-night heart to heart discussions. This didn’t seem like a time to reply at all.

“You keep doing this, over and over, and I keep entertaining it. We both know you’re going to walk out of here, or disappear into smoke only to show up in Finland or some similarly random place. We both know I’ll chase you, and you’ll shoot me or taunt me or make a fool out of me in front of my boss. It’s been an endless cycle since I was first assigned to your case, and it will stay that way until one of us dies. At least then I can rest, one way or the other. 

“So why does it hurt to see you like this? Watching you cooped up in there, practically scratching at the walls for something to do, pacing around like a madman… It makes me hurt. I hate it. When I watch from the cameras I assure everyone it’s to make sure you’re not slipping out of here. Really, though, I just want to see how you’re doing. I know how you kick around and pull at your hair after a few days. I just want to open the doors and tell you to be free.

“The worst part of it is that you  _ could _ be free by now if you’d just stopped when I caught you the first time. You could have finished your sentence years ago. We could have gone to a bar down the road and talked as equal citizens. But you didn’t stop, and you’ll never stop until someone makes you stop, and for some cosmically cruel reason it has to be  _ me _ to make you stop. Do you understand what I’m saying to you? I have to make you stop.

“You’re going to get out of here, like always, if you aren’t stopped. It’ll keep going. More people will get hurt, or die, or be traumatized because of you. Why are you like this? Why didn’t you stop when you could? Why does it have to be me? 

“You run around like some divine force that can accomplish any task, and sometimes I’ve believed it to be true. I’ve seen athletic feats from you that should be impossible. The plans you’ve come up with are so well put together it can only be called genius. Do you understand how much good you could have put into this world? Instead you chose to live this life of hurting others and selfishly taking anything you deemed worth your time. You, you, you. All you think about is you.

“Have you  _ ever _ thought about me? Have you ever cared? When I’m falling asleep I pretend that you look back and make sure I’m not dead after you, you know, try to kill me. It’s stupid. If you showed just an ounce of humanity then I would keep going with our relationship. Despite it all, I want you to live. Despite how much I fucking hate you, I want you to stay here on earth. With me.

“Could you just show me anything? I look for it every day. I know everything about your life that there is to know. I know about your family, the friends you keep around, the women you chase, the food you prefer. I know what  _ shampoo _ you use, and how you take your coffee, and the cologne you use when you’re really trying to seem classy. I know everything, except if you are at all capable of love.”

His withered voice matched his shrinking body, but then quickly there were fists around my prison uniform pulling me into the bars. It wasn’t the roughest treatment I’ve gotten from him, but the suddenness of his rage was startling. His face was nose to nose with mine and I expected him to break it. Instead, he continued monologuing at me with a newfound energy.

“I  _ hate _ you. I hate all of you. I hate every crime you’ve done. I hate your gaudy clothing and foul cologne and your ridiculous face. I hate that you slip through my fingers and laugh at me. I hate your self confident smile when you declare your next big theft like it’s  _ funny _ . You ruin lives and I hate you for it.

“And for some horrible, terrible, sickening reason you continue to do this and I continue to chase you. And I’ve finally realized why. I can’t stop chasing you,  _ ever _ , because I’m the only one with even a small chance of stopping you. The prison system will never keep you long enough to fill your sentence. No one can dream of catching you. You know it. I know it. And now I know the only solution is to kill you right here and now, while you have nothing to fight with and nowhere to run. The only way I can stop you is to sink to your level. You’ve stolen everything from me- my pride, my career, my youth and health and  _ family _ \- and now you’ve stolen my very humanity. 

“So why can’t I do it? I hate you but I want you to smile that goofy smile. You’re evil, but I want you to be happy. You’ve taken everything from me and I want to give you more. You are a wicked, devilish creature sent from the depths of hell to torture me before I’ve even died. And all I can do is ask myself, ‘why? why? why?’”

Being at a loss for words is not a common event for me. I’m well known for my witty comebacks and everlasting sass, a mouth that can prattle for hours and seemingly never pause for breath. It’s gotten me into a whole lot of trouble, but gotten me out of tight spots that would have otherwise surely been my demise. I’m good with words, able to string together just the right ones in just the right language to get whatever it is I’m after. It’s the skill I’m proudest of. 

Of course, this man had kept me on my toes for just about twenty years and he always managed to one-up himself. So I was standing there, mouth open and waiting for the reply to spill out, staring into his contorted expression of rage and anguish. That, too, was new. No words left my lips, though, and so we stood there nose to nose against the cell door for quite some time, before he finally released my clothes and sat on the concrete floor. I, not knowing in that moment what the best course of action was, mimicked his movements. 

Koichi Zenigata. That was the man in front of me, the famous ICPO inspector that had been hot on my trail for long enough for a child to be born and grow into a young adult. His own daughter was around twenty three now, more or less. I’ve kept tabs on him, as is natural to do when a man is chasing after you with the goal of locking you away forever. I have enough notes on him to fill a few books, and for as much as he knows about me I know about him as well. Zenigata uses a 3-in-1 shampoo, for example, and drinks black instant coffee. He drinks cheap beer as his alcohol of choice. He loves his subordinate and worries equally much about the young man’s safety. Zenigata is a determined and honest man, ever diligent and dedicated to the line of duty. Zenigata is a good man. 

I’ve already mentioned that I am  _ not _ a good man, and I do not associate with good men, and I do not strive to become a good man. Not once have I had even the slightest urge to reform myself and atone for the crimes I’ve committed. The only good man in my life is the one that has chased me in a futile attempt of pulling me to his side of standard morals and law and order. 

And now that man was sitting, nearly curled in on himself, with his emotions clearly overwhelming his mind and soul. He was showing me all this for some reason, laying it all out in a last, desperate attempt of reaching some goodness he believed I possessed. He was praying that I would suddenly repent and apologize and vow to change so that he could avoid committing the act he’s concluded is his final choice. 

To say I was pained is an understatement.

He had come to me and confessed his undying hatred of me, claimed I destroyed him in every imaginable way, that his only idea left was to kill me, and he said it all to me with a desperation for assurance that he was wrong. He was waiting there in front of me for that assurance, silently begging me to say a clever line that would let him walk away. Of course, my tongue was uncharacteristically tied and my throat was tight such that any lie I attempted would be unconvincing. I had no sharp clothes or fluid movements to charm my way through this, nor did I have any weapon to threaten him. There wasn’t a single wisecrack that could diffuse the suffocating heaviness around us. The only option I had in that moment was complete openness and honesty. That is  _ not _ one of my skills.

“Just tell me one thing you love, other than yourself. And don’t lie. I’ll know.”

Just one thing is all he asked for. One thing I love in the whole world.

I could have said I loved my friends, and to some extent that is true. I love them as I love my one of a kind treasures, and I love their unique strengths, and their loyalty to me, and their amazing skills. But I suppose that isn’t exactly love in the way Zenigata was asking. I could have said I loved my family, when they were alive, and that too is to some degree true. I love the legacy of my grandfather and the inspiration his tales fill me with. I love the skills my father taught me and the inheritance and prestige he left for me. That, also, was not a proper answer. There were many women I’d loved over the years, but that love was more a desire to own and conquer than an unconditional love between partners. I sat there thinking through anything I could love, other than myself of course, that would satisfy his question. I did love the things I stole, but not for any of their own qualities, and the same went for my many cars and houses. Was there a food I loved, perhaps? 

“Just one, single thing. There has to be something.”

His voice then was small and difficult to hear. I hated it, truly. Rather, I hated that I was the cause of it. Now  _ that _ was an unfamiliar feeling. Through it I continued my pursuit of evidence for anything I could confidently say I had love for. Other than myself.  _ Other _ than myself. That was the tricky part.

Aha, but I realized in a flash that there was something close enough to myself that fulfilled the requirements put in front of me. If not myself, then the second closest thing. Surely I loved that? The second closest is my grandfather, or at least that was my first thought. I’ve already explained how that could not be the case. So then what? What was close enough to me, yet  _ wasn’t _ me?

And then I looked at him, really looked at him. His dark hair greyed over the years, his face had lines too numerous for his age. I’d been under the impression that he was somehow bigger, but it had been so long since I properly observed his form that the weight loss went unnoticed. This man had followed me to the end of the world and back repeatedly, determined to grab me and reign me in. He said it himself- he knew everything about me. He knew about me as much as  _ I _ knew about me. His entire life and existence was dedicated to me. Did I love that, the dedication? 

He had told me just moments before that he wanted me to be free, he wanted me to smile, that seeing me suffer pained him. He wanted me to look back to him. He wanted me to live. Was that the kind of love he was looking for?

I am not one for complex feelings. I don’t look deep within myself to pull apart the tangled strings of emotion and find their roots. It’s not a skill I need or want, and so it is not one I have. Zenigata, though, is very good at keeping me on the edge of my seat. That is a skill he has honed for years. 

So there I was sitting, pulling apart those strings on the spot and doing it quite poorly. Zenigata is a patient man, though, and he made no indication to rush me through it. 

I like that about Zenigata. He’s patient as he waits for the perfect moment to jump out and slap handcuffs around my wrist. He’s also kind when he does so, ensuring his underlings don’t rough me up as they cart me off to jail. His temper can explode sometimes, but almost always it’s due to my relentless teasing. Zenigata is serious, which is quite entertaining against my childishness, and attempting to crack past his wall brings a smile to my face. His single-mindedness is focused on me, and I do love attention. Zenigata hasn’t given up on me, either. Somehow. Which, really, is foolish considering my very nature (and he is well aware of said nature) but it is also heartwarming. I have photos of Zenigata (for the notes, you see) and in some of them I’ve caught a rare, full-faced smile. A smile on him takes off a good ten years. And he is really very fatherly in a way I would never be, especially towards the younger members of the police force that admire him. 

Zenigata is, unlike me, a good man with a good heart and a good soul who, stupidly, believes I can change. 

“So, there really is nothing, then?”

His dejected voice caught my ear and pulled me out of myself, back into the moment of us together yet separated on the ground. I had my answer, though, and felt that my voice would come out confident when I spoke. I took in a breath, rolled back my shoulders, and looked right at him.

He was looking back. Waiting. Pleaing. 

“Well,” I said to him, “there are many things I love. I love the devotion from my friends, and I love the pleasure of a woman, and I love the money I take and have been given. I love the thrill of free fall, and I love the feelings one can only acquire through mind altering drugs. And, of course, I love myself. But these don’t answer your question, do they? You’ve come to me in a last try at finding any semblance of a human soul and waited for me to find an answer. And I do thank you for waiting, because finally I’ve found it. 

“There is one single thing I love just as much as I love myself, and I regret that it has taken so much time and such severe circumstances for me to find it. This one thing is actually quite dear to me, and all this time I’ve hidden from that feeling. I’m not accustomed to being afraid, you see, and facing such heavy feelings frightens me. Well, you wanted an honest answer and this is it.”

“So,” He said to me with more life in his voice. “What is the one thing you love, that proves you have goodness in your heart and will give me a reason to spare your life?”

I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face. I just couldn’t wait for his reaction. Would he accept my answer? Would he be angry? Would he shoot me then and there? The excitement lifted my spirits and made me giddy and I could barely keep myself from jumping up. I did manage to stay still, though, and watch his face as he explored my own and made his own silent theories. I knew (and he knew I knew, and I knew he knew I knew) that he, too, was feeling the current of anticipation. 

“One thing I love. What a difficult question you gave me, Zenigata! And under the threat of death to give an answer, too. You really are a cruel man. Yet I, with kindness, have sat here working tirelessly to produce an answer that will satisfy you and ultimately spare my life. That’s a lot of pressure for one man.”

“Cut to the chase. What’s your answer?”

“My answer is you.”

His reaction was better than I’d expected. He was baffled, clearly, and perhaps a bit angry towards me. Of course his first thought would be to interpret it as a joke. And then the thoughts played themselves across his face. Confusion, suspicion, and hesitance. I spoke again.

“I’m saying my answer, the one thing I have realized I love, is you. Koichi Zenigata, the man who has devoted his life to me. The man that hates me with every cell and breath yet treats me with kindness and mercy. I love this man, this Koichi, for his will to achieve his goal no matter how difficult the task, and for his softness in caring for our world’s youth, and for his patience and morals and his own love towards me. Not only do I love him, but I am also  _ in  _ love with him. A forbidden love, of course, and one that I could not face because of it’s very impossibility. Yet this is my answer and it’s likely the most honest thing I’ve said in my entire life.

“I, Arsene Lupin, the third of the name, am absolutely in love with you, Koichi Zenigata, and have been for years, and will continue to be until I die. That is my answer.”

For a moment there was no movement from him, and I wondered if he was even daring to breathe. Then, with the most inexpressive face I’ve ever seen on a human, he stood, stretched, and unlocked my cell! He was letting me go, making my escape as easy as it could possibly be. As I stepped out of the damned room, he moved very close to my person. For just a moment I was under the impression he would kiss me.

But no, his action was not a kiss but a hard punch to the jaw. I am not a weak man, but such a thing could knock down a warrior. He stood above me with that same face, yet in the shadow cast over it I noticed a subtle change. It was caught in the light for just a moment, but as he was standing in front of the lightsource I only caught the smallest glimpse. The smallest wetness on his cheeks. How precious a feeling to have your heartfelt confession acknowledged in such a way. 

“You’re a vile, twisted, cruel man. _ Evil _ . Horrendous. Nefarious. Just...an all around awful person. Get out of here. Go.”

I stood to leave, as instructed, and as I began to walk down the corridor his hand grabbed onto mine.   
“I love you too, Lupin. Always have and always will.”

And then we were apart, fated to meet again in the circumstances our game together allowed, chasing and being chased until death determined the winner. 

  
  
  



End file.
